


If It Helps You Control Yourself

by scarredsodeep



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Booty Call, Canon Compliant, M/M, One Shot, Past Relationship(s), Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tales from 2017, ab/ap era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 22:59:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10649838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarredsodeep/pseuds/scarredsodeep
Summary: 4:35am. Long-distance call, incoming from Los Angeles. It doesn't count as phone sex if they don't talk about the sex on the phone, right?For Bandom Bingo 2017: pillow talk.





	If It Helps You Control Yourself

**Author's Note:**

> For my "pillow talk" in the [Bandom Bingo](http://lady-smutterella.dreamwidth.org/284.html) challenge. Wrote it on a whim this evening, had to give you something since all my energy has been going into the Big Bang you won't see for months yet. Hope you enjoy it!
> 
> For extra feels, listen to November Rain while you read this.

“Is this a fucking _booty call_?” Patrick grumbles in his phone. He squints at the display, which is LED fire to his eyeballs. It is 4:35 in the morning, an hour of the day from which nothing good can come.

Well. That’s not strictly true, is it. Patrick has come pretty fucking righteously at this hour in recent memory. Usually following a call like this one.

“Give me the odds before I answer,” murmurs sleep-addled Pete. He’s on the other side of the continent, two thousand miles away. When Patrick puts the phone on speaker and sets it on his pillow, it sounds like Pete is lying right next to him.

“Yes: sixty-seven percent chance of me hanging up. No: ummm, fuck, one hundred minus sixty-seven percent chance of me hanging up. It’s early, Peter. It’s late.” Patrick’s brain may not be willing to engage in math, but his hand seems to have some things it’s willing to engage in, creeping as it is under the sheet.

“On second thought, never tell me the odds,” says Pete. Patrick can see his dreamy smile if he closes his eyes. Asshole never misses a chance to quote Han Solo. “It’s a booty call.”

“Sometimes I think you don’t value my sleep hygiene at all,” Patrick accuses, but his hand has found its way into his briefs, his shaky fingertips tracing the length of him. Parts of him, at least, are waking up. A sharp breath hisses through his lips, carries into the phone. Pete hums in response.

“This is only the second time this week,” says Pete.

“Third.” Patrick wraps his hand around the slow-soft swell of his cock. His blood heats his skin from the inside out.

“Mmm. Twice on Sunday. I forgot.” Pete’s voice catches up in a half-gasp, a soft animal sound in his throat. Patrick closes his eyes and pretends there’s not a phone or a country between them. Patrick closes his eyes and pretends his hand belongs to someone else.

“You could just admit you miss me,” says Patrick, “and come home.” Pete moved to LA a decade ago, leaving Patrick to weather the winters alone. Patrick still aches like Pete packed his bag and moved out of their apartment yesterday. These days Pete flies out about once a month, puts a fresh indent in what Patrick will always think of as his side of the bed, commits all manner of merry indiscretions. After all these years, Patrick still hasn’t learned the word for _enough_. When it comes to Pete, Patrick’s fucking starving.

“What do you have against palm trees?” Pete can barely get the words out. He’s breathing in little moans. Patrick can only just hear the friction rub of Pete’s hand, Pete’s dick on the other end of the line.

The head of his cock starts leaking, and the extra lubricant feels _good_. Patrick spits into his own hand, making sure it’s audible, and rubs himself warm and slick. It’s best when they come together, across the country, without ever having to touch. It’s best when they come together but hard to coordinate, since the unspoken agreement is that this is only okay as long as it’s—unspoken. They figured out a decade ago they didn’t work together, and figured it out again two years later, damn near at the cost of the band. So they aren’t together. They are very, very far apart.

Patrick strokes his own dick furiously, biting his lip, filling his headthoughtsheart with PetePetePete. They are very, very far apart, and it’s best when they come together.

“Same thing you have against snow,” Patrick mumbles. The words don’t matter, the words are inane. The words are a reason to stay on the line. His hand, his dick, the swollen ruby-red image of Pete in his mind’s eye: these are the things that matter.

Pete whines in his ear, on the pillow next to him. If Pete was here—oh, if Patrick was there—

“Sounds like we’re doomed to be parted,” Pete bites out. His breath rattles and scrapes. Patrick can practically see Pete’s hips lifting, bucking off the mattress. Patrick has seen it before.

Someone else sees it now.

Close, close. The important thing is they don’t talk about it. Patrick doesn’t have to feel guilty if they don’t talk about it.

“Don’t like that,” Patrick manages. “Fond memories—of when we were—” God, god, _yes_ —Patrick starts shuddering from the soles of his fucking feet, the core of his godsfucked soul, and up from there, goldenglowingbright— “Together.”

Patrick comes, spilling hot over his hand, his belly, his briefs. Third pair this week, like he’s 15 and not 32. From the sounds Pete’s making, he knows Pete’s come too. Ten years is nothing. It would take ten lifetimes for him to forget that sound.

“Miss you,” Pete whispers shaky into the phone. Outside his window, the Pacific Ocean wears rocks down into fine white sand, unrelenting and irresistible.

Outside Patrick’s, Lake Michigan prepares to freeze. “Miss you too,” Patrick says back. This is the closest they will come to talking about it. Neither of them knows what would happen, if they said what they meant out loud. Like Patrick mentioned, it went badly, last time. The last time.

“Night, Trick,” Pete says. His voice is husky and sweet with sleep and longing.

“Morning, Wentz.” Patrick sighs with sticky contentment. Even here in the dark, he doesn’t want to admit it, but this is the best he’ll feel all week. “Next time I’m hanging up.”

“Dare you,” murmurs Pete. Already he’s drifting off. “Stay on the line. Hearing you breathe helps me sleep.”

Patrick doesn’t clean himself up, doesn’t get off the phone. He rolls over, faces towards the soft cell phone glow that has come to mean _Pete_.

Together, they fall asleep.


End file.
